Hands off the Spaniard, damn it!
by DisturbingBunnyRabbit
Summary: Also know as: "Protecting stupid boyfriends from harpies and perverts" After all, having a lover as oblivious as Spain is NOT easy. Romano would know. Rated T for Roma's lovely mouth, of course. Guilty of fluff.


A.N.) Just a quick Spamano one-shot I thought up while listening to my iPod. Hope you enjoy, and please review! :)

* * *

><p>I am sick of it. Sick. And. Tired. What am I tired of? I'm tired of people constantly flirting withgroping/attempting to steal my boyfriend. And I'm also tired of having to constantly beat the shit out of all those people. Unfortunately, when you have a boyfriend as clueless and as easygoing as Spain, such actions are necessary. Oh sure, I had tried non violent methods before. (I'm not _exactly_ known for my battle prowess) But nothing worked. Duct-taping Spain's clothes to his skin just gave him a rash. Lecturing him never worked because Spain was just too oblivious to notice when he was being groped and/or flirted with. And sending out death threats to repeat offenders (France, France, and FRANCE) didn't really work… (Because France was…well, FRANCE) So, the only thing I can think to do is to spend as much time as possible with Spain, so no one gets any funny ideas. And those who do can be dealt with.

It's not like I actually _enjoy _letting people know I'm dating that green-eyed idiot, but I have to protect what's rightfully MINE, right? …Shut up! ...Anyway. So, the other day, I was walking next to the idiot, (Read: Spain) when I saw a woman eyeing him appreciatively out of the corner of my eye. She looked about forty or so, but was still passably decent looking, and had a confident air about her. Damn cougars. She probably didn't even realize that the handsome brunette she was ogling was several hundred years older than her. I continued to watch her suspiciously, only half listening to the chatter coming from Spain beside me. It was when the woman started over towards us that I sprang into action. (Also known as: Operation Avoid-Stupid-Man-Stealing-Bastards) I grabbed Spain's hand and dragged him down the street as fast as I could, only looking back to see the disappointed look on that stupid bitch's face. Ha. That's what you fuckin' get. Beside me, Spain gushed about how adorable I was for wanting to hold hands. Once we were far away enough, I promptly told him that no, I didn't want to hold hands, damn it! I was just saving him from being devoured by a harpy. He didn't believe me. Typical… (The fact that I continued to hold his hand afterword means NOTHING damn it!)

And, as if one incident that day wasn't enough, it looked like more trouble was already brewing by noon. Apparently, Spain had invited FRANCE of all people over to visit. Was he TRYING to be raped? Do I have the most idiotic boyfriend on the planet? Oh, wait, England's dating America, isn't he…And then there's my brother and the potato-bastard, but I REFUSE to acknowledge them as a couple, so they don't count. Veneziano's just going through a phase or something right now. A seventy-five-year-long phase… Shut up…

But I digress. As it stood, the stubble-faced rape machine was in our-I m-mean_ Spain's _house, for a total of about three minutes, before he was already giving Spain dirty looks. And when France is concerned, "dirty looks" takes on a whole new meaning. Not a pleasant one, either. Try to imagine a fat man who was just put on a diet of lettuce leaves looking at a steaming plate of pasta prepared by a culinary master. Yeah. That was the look France was giving Spain. I could only hope that staying vigilant would prevent molestation from occurring. Not likely, considering the bastard had molested _me _before, but my presence was still a _slight _deterrent, since Spain usually didn't have a problem beating France up if he "made his little tomato unhappy or uncomfortable". And Spain was a beast when he wanted to be. I could only imagine the pain and suffering someone would endure at his hands if someone actually _hurt _me. That being said, it still didn't change the fact that Spain was an idiot. So, when…nature started "calling" to me, I tried my best to hold it. I knew that if I left the room France would jump Spain. But, after a few minutes of uncomfortable shifting, I knew sacrifices had to be made. It was either my dignity and the couch upholstery, or the cleanliness of Spain's skin. Spain could shower. I made my way to and from the bathroom as quickly as I could, but of course that didn't prevent anything. By the time I got back, France's hand was already halfway up Spain's shirt. So, naturally, I walked to the kitchen, got out a rolling pin, and calmly walked back to the living room. Where upon arrival, I immediately began to not-so-calmly beat the shit out of a certain blonde. There was blood. Oh, glorious blood, and victory! It wasn't long until the bastard was begging for mercy and running out the door. I yelled out after him. Something along the lines of, "I'll kill you if you try it again!" I believe. Spain wasn't upset, but he did ask me why I beat up his "very good friend, because we were just having a nice friendly talk, Roma!" So. Damn. Stupid. I didn't feel like answering such a stupid question, so I just ignored it and told Antonio to get me a tomato. I kept the rolling pin with me. It was very useful. Now I understand why Hungary always carries around that frying pan…

All in all, at the end of that day, I had successfully defended my territory, defeated a conniving harpy, and vanquished the evil, bearded, rape-monster. I was snuggled in a warm, soft bed with Spain at my side. (It's just too cold, sleeping alone, OK?) I know that I'll have to pick up the battle-pin (Read: rolling pin) again, perhaps soon, but at that moment all was as it should be. Spain's body was pressed against mine and breathing deeply as he slept, peaceful and safe from perverts.

…And maybe, just maybe, I'll admit that I _might _have smiled a little bit as I drifted off to sleep that night.


End file.
